


The End

by nicoleiacross



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Gen, Headcanon, Human Castiel, Human Michael, M/M, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicoleiacross/pseuds/nicoleiacross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Playing in Croatoan 2014 'verse of "What If" varieties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Short drabbles written for my girlfriend~ We got onto the topic of 2014 and ended up doing a divergence from canon and... really, all you need right now is Michael's on Earth, Adam's alive, everything else is kind of still in some form of canon place from how 2009!Dean saw the 2014 world.  
> Should be noted: I use Zachary Quinto for human!Michael (also, applied headcanon that archangels can shape their own vessels at the expense of Grace)

> [i].  _additions_  (Cas(/Dean) & Michael)

Castiel knows as soon as he sees the man enter the camp.

His attention draws away from Dean, immediately, and he feels his limbs lock up and snap to stand at attention. He thinks Dean asks what’s wrong and wonders if he looks terrified (or perhaps he looks just a little like he used to).

The man spares him a glance—just a glance—before dark eyes turn towards Dean and Castiel becomes aware of Dean speaking. Asking where they found him.

“Just outside the hot zone. Doing pretty good, all considered.” One of the patrolmen is turning a machine gun over in his hands, “Ammo’s almost out; good use of short burst fires. Think he’s ex-military.”

“I am a soldier.” The voice is deep, but Castiel knows the underlying ring. The patrolmen don’t seem to notice; but, he sees Dean’s jaw clench. Sees the way his eyes narrow, “Military, perhaps not… but, I am a soldier.”

Dean dismisses the patrol—snaps at them, really, to return to their posts—and waits until they’re well away before giving a sharp gesture to be followed. The man complies with no complaint; his posture remains a mirror of militaristic rigidness—shoulders drawn back, head held high, arms at his sides—and compliments the void expression. Castiel remains rooted in place until Dean barks out his name, as well, and he hurries to catch up. He wants to walk in stride with Dean—to mutter hurried warnings to keep his temper, to not provoke confrontation—but he shrinks behind their guest and follows just out of arm’s length from the man. 

Dean doesn’t seem to notice. Castiel pretends not to notice that he doesn’t.

Dean’s cabin feels suffocating, despite there being only three of them. Dean doesn’t address the man yet; he’s rummaging in the cabinet and Castiel finds himself unable to stand still. He can’t stop the violent twitch his eye gives when the Jack Daniel’s and a small, crystal glass—one of the few luxuries in the camp—are slammed on a counter. A large hand against his shoulder gives a vague squeeze; a gesture telling him to calm down. When he glances up, the man is still watching Dean, despite the gesture. Castiel stills his fidgeting—for the moment—and tries to mimic the expression of void emotion. (It would be much easier if he weren’t certain of the brewing tension.)

When Dean finally turns on them, he glances—glares, almost—at the man’s hand on Castiel’s shoulder. (Castiel doesn’t let himself hope.) Just for a moment, though, before his attention drifts to meet the man’s eyes.

“Where are you from?”

“A bit west. Minnesota.”

“More than a bit.” 

The man gives a vague tilt of his head, instead of shrugging; the gesture is more commanding. It’s telling Dean to get to his point. Castiel knows the gesture all too well. He should intervene; he can’t.

Dean’s eyes are already narrowing; his grip on the glass is enough to worry Castiel—mostly that the glass will shatter and their new medic isn’t  _quite_  on the best terms with Dean. But, it doesn’t and Dean finally collects himself to ask another question without snapping.

“You have a name?”

The man is quiet for a moment. He’s searching Dean’s glare, just for a moment, before he turns the look to Castiel. He locks up and stands at attention again without conscious effort. The gaze returns to Dean.

“Castiel’s already told you this: don’t ask stupid questions, Winchester.”

Castiel feels his breath catch in his throat and he’s quick to get between the two before Dean can throw the punch.  He catches his arm—his wrist, really—and has to put his weight (nothing, compared to Dean’s weight in muscle) into forcing him to back up a bit. His teeth clench and he hisses for Dean to calm down before they attract attention from the others.

The struggle doesn’t last long before Dean wrenches away to pace a few feet away. Castiel keeps himself warily planted between the two.

“Did you know about this, Cas?”

He promptly startles; in any other situation, he may be hurt by the accusation (a small part of him might still be). He’s ashamed of how used to this he’s gotten. Still, he shakes his head, slowly, “I did not.”

“Castiel had nothing to do with this. I came on my own. Others intended to aid me.” They both return their attention to the man, he’s tilting his head again, this time in contemplation, “As it turns out, even Grace is not enough to fight the infection once it enters the vessel’s blood. It’s… troublesome.” He glances towards Castiel, “… I am certain you have already noticed the change.”

He had hoped it was just from Falling. The silence terrifies him, frequently; but, the frequent gun fire and roving of tanks and jeeps and the screams of the infected are normally enough to distract him. Now, though… the silence deafens and terrifies him again.

“Noticed  _what_.”

“Heaven’s closed.” Castiel’s not sure if Dean hears him. He’s shaking. Any attempt he may have made for redemption. Any attempt he may have considered to return to Heaven…. “The Gates have closed. To Heaven and Hell.”

The man nods, short and curt, and Castiel can’t bring himself to meet the shocked expression that is starting to return to anger. Dean turns on the man again.

“ _Which one_  are you?”

Castiel sways, lightly, as the situation finally starts to sink in and he slowly lowers to one knee. It feels familiar and he can almost feel the affection from the man, even when he feels alarm from Dean’s direction. Just being this close to a linger of Heaven is enough to give him a wave of nauseating homesickness.

“Haven’t you guessed, Winchester?” He can hear the annoyance that gives just the barest hint of amusement, “I am the one you turned your back on. I am the one that could have stopped this, had you chosen not to let your  _pride_  blind you.”

Dean snarls.

“ _Michael_.”

Castiel can’t stop him from attempting to punch Michael this time.

Dean spends a week nursing fractures in his hand and wrist; in that time, Michael settles in and temporarily takes charge of the camp. 

Castiel is only vaguely surprised when everyone falls in line without much question; he knows the commanding air around his brother all too well.

> [ii]  _speculation_  (Adam & Michael)

Adam’s heard the rumours around camp.

That the new soldier—Michael, whatever—is like Cas. The strange, drug addicted, womanising  _freak_  that never seems to actually get drunk… but has the most inside information on their enemy, right along with Dean.

Frankly, Adam dislikes both of them. Michael, at least, seems fairly more level headed. 

He doesn’t speak much. He doesn’t mingle with the rest of the camp. He gives orders—short, to the point, mostly related to patrol and strategy—and otherwise only speaks to Cas on occasions. And, on such a note, Adam doesn’t think he’s  _ever_  seen Cas so… anxious. The man—usually extremely friendly (too friendly, sometimes)—turns into a nervous wreck around Michael. He stands at attention—like a soldier that Adam’s never seen him attempt to be—only to shuffle in place, to become extremely self conscious, while he’s speaking; the second Michael starts to speak, Cas snaps back to attention.

Chuck tells him he’s over speculating. There’s something fond in the man’s eyes, despite a light of worry. Adam wants to ask; but, he opts not to, in favour of observing from an extremely safe distance. Usually clear across the camp.

There’s something else about Michael.

It’s not the air of confidence.

Sometimes, there are times when Michael freaks Adam out. The example he calls to mind, almost immediately, is from the second day Michael had been in the camp. He’d gotten into a scrap with an older refugee—a man that lost everything and frequently got into drunk brawls with just about everyone except Dean—and… frankly, the scrap was what made Adam keep his distance. It hadn’t necessarily been the violence. It had been his reaction. His motions. Flawless, smooth—almost liquid. His retaliation. Short, precise strikes to nerves. He hadn’t wounded the man; momentarily paralyzed him, yes. Just long enough to deposit him in the infirmary tent, apologise to Adam and Chuck, and excuse himself. 

Sometimes, Adam’s pretty God damn sure he isn’t human.

Especially around sunset and sunrise. The nights he can’t sleep and rolls out of bed earlier than he would have ever considered before  _this_ shit fest happened. Michael is always standing watch. Just at the edge of the camp. At night, his back is the sun, his eyes fixed on the city. At a tall, abandoned housing complex in the middle of Detroit. (It may be a hospital… Adam can’t tell from the camp; it’s too big to be a motel. Maybe a luxury hotel or conference center. He doubts it’s a hospital; because he knows, from first head experience and an abundance of arguments, that Dean would never raid a hot zone “just for” medical supplies. And he’s been planning a hit on the building for a  _long_  time.) That part isn’t too alarming.

No. It’s sunrise. When Adam finally stumbles out of his cabin, still half-asleep, and finds Michael rooted in the same spot, position still rigid. He doesn’t seem to notice the sun attempting to blind him. He keeps staring— _glaring_  at the building. And his shadow will spread across the camp.

No one else comments on it; so, Adam assumes he’s seeing things in his half asleep state.

He tells himself he’s imaging the enormous shadow that covers the camp; that the large, phantom-like figure towering over Michael is reminiscent of a lingering dream. Possibly a memory when he feels a familiarity from it.

It’s not until Cas pulls him aside one day—after one of the sunrise encounters—that he thinks maybe he’s not as tired as he’s been lead to believe.

“You can see him, too, can’t you, Adam?”

Cas is being oddly still, oddly quiet. Adam tries to get a look at his eyes. They’re dull, murky… there are bags under his eyes, again. Adam sighs and rolls eyes eyes to keep from thinking on the question, “We gave you sleeping pills for a reason. We told you they won’t interfere with the anxiety—”

“A tall silhouette.” Adam’s mouth snaps shut. Cas looks dazed, a vague smile on his face that makes him look far too old, “A tall, dark silhouette. No defining features; just long limbs, with razor sharp talons on the ends. A shadow over the entire camp. But it’s not from the silhouette, is it? It’s from the six figures from the silhouette’s back.”

They resemble wings. Adam remembers standing in the shadow of a wing and wondering if he was standing  _on_  it or  _under_  it. He remembers shaking his head and telling himself he was being stupid.

“You can see him… but, you shouldn’t be able to. You shouldn’t even  _be here_.” Cas is rocking now, his brows furrowing in confusion as though he’s trying to recall something long lost, “Shouldn’t… you weren’t there—”

“Castiel.”

The man startles and scrambles to his feet; Adam just jumps and is only vaguely surprised his neck doesn’t snap under how fast he looks up.

Michael’s own brows are furrowed at the man, “Castiel, I asked you to return to your cabin.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Cas is fidgeting again. Adam tries to shake off the uneasy feeling when he stands.

“We gave him sleeping aids… I’m not sure  _why_  he’s ignoring them.”

Michael nods, in passing, “Thank you. I will ensure they’re taken.” He moves forward and puts a hand to the center of Castiel’s back, gives a gentle push, before he looks back towards Adam, “If you would indulge me… may we speak in a moment?”

“Uh… sure?” 

“Thank you. I will return once I’ve aided Castiel.”

Adam just sits on a desk top—one he’s specifically cleaned off so Chuck would stop panicking at him sitting on the paperwork—and wonders what the Hell he just heard. Psychology isn’t his field of expertise; frankly, he’d rather leave all the psychological sessions to Chuck or one of the others. He makes a note to try provoking Chuck to  _talk to Cas_. Because… even if anything he said was capable of making sense—no. There’s no way it could make sense.

> ♠

When Michael returns, there’s… a surprisingly comfortable silence. He’s considering what to say and Adam just watches him. At first, he watches his face; but, movement catches his attention and he finally glances just past Michael’s shoulder and stares.

A large, shadowed wing flickers out of view the second he tries to focus on it and he blinks. He feels his heart pound as he tries to assure himself that he’s  _just tired and nothing is there._

“You can see me.”

It’s not a question. It’s not even really a comment. It’s… like he’s affirming something that Adam should already know and it  _doesn’t make sense._  Adam tries to look at the spot again; but, there’s still nothing there. He glares when Michael gives a vague chuckle.

“It is all right. You have not gone mad. I am surprised you could see me… I am still uncertain whether Dean can. I did not suspect you would… but… you have seen me before. Perhaps that is why.”

Adam stares; he tries to keep glaring, but the confusion is winning out. When he focuses on Michael, he can see it. Just out the corner of his eye; but, the second he tries to focus on it, it just… vanishes.

“Has Dean told you, I wonder, what Castiel and I are?”

Adam shakes his head, slowly, “So… you two  _aren’t_  human?” He’s not sure why he isn’t surprised. Frankly, after the Croatoan virus destroyed everything around him… not much of  _anything_ surprises him anymore.

“We are not. You perceive us as humans, but these… these are mere vessels.” Michael’s patting his hands down his clothes in a curious manner, “I do not recall fashion being quite so… loose and bulky. It is… detrimental to close-ranged battle. Good for carrying supplies though.”

“… You are  _really_  weird. Did you know that?” Adam’s not sure what he’s calling weird; the sudden change to fashion discussion or the use of “humans” and “vessels” in a sentence. Michael quirks a brow at him.

“I suppose I do seem rather odd to someone who was not a Hunter before. Castiel said something to you—”

“He said I don’t belong.” Adam frowns; something about the words makes sense, despite how bad he wants to attack Cas (it wouldn’t be the first time he’s been called an accident, a bastard… but  _Cas_  shouldn’t know. No one in the camp should know) and how he would normally be extremely offended.

“And, in a sense, he was correct.” Adam bristles, moreso when Michael gives another chuckle, “Not in the sense you believe, though. On Earth, living… here you belong. It is in our Script—our prophecy—that you do not—did… did not belong.” Just as suddenly as the vague amusement presents itself, it fades to the void expression, “The Script is no more. It is becoming obsolete as each day passes and Dean does nothing to revive it. To save whatever sliver of humanity is left. Is such devastation not worth eradicating?”

Adam stares, “… You’re saying Winchester could make this… all of this…  _this bullshit_  stop.” Michael nods, vaguely. Adam feels his teeth grinding together, “And he  _isn’t_?”

“There are details that I cannot disclose; but, in simplest terms… he could have made this much easier than he is.” Michael looks down at his hand, gives it a testing flex, “Each day, the chances grow slimmer… I do not doubt that the door will soon lock itself for eternity.”

“… What  _are_  you?”

“You know what I am. I am Michael.”

Adam wants to snap that’s  _who_  he is, not  _what_.

But, Michael brushes his fingers, lightly, just enough to be felt, across Adam’s forehead.

His fingers are alarmingly warm and frozen all at once. There is heat emitting from  _beneath_  his skin, despite the frigid texture of the flesh. Just that touch, though; something flashes in the back of his mind—a large, faceless creature, perched over him, making curious chirping, purring noises deep in its throat as it observed, as Adam chased it and tried to climb up the tall trees after it.

The imaginary friend everyone dismissed, even when it left scorching claw prints on tree branches when older kids pushed Adam off the jungle gym, out of swings… he remembers other kids running away screaming, from a shadow that no one really understood.

Adam sways; Michael catches his shoulder to steady him.

“Castiel did not mean to offend you.”

“… He’s one, too? One of those… things. Like you are?”

Michael nods, “He is. I… believe Castiel has Fallen, however. Do you know  _what_  we are? We are certainly not shadows.”

“… You guys don’t look anything like the portraits in the churches.”

Michael gives another chuckle, “I suppose we do not. But, if we did… everyone would know what we are. And ours is a secret few are permitted. We are—were… extremely dangerous, once upon a time. But… it seems our power fades every day. It will not be long until I, as well, am useless to stop the epidemic.”

Adam can’t think of a response. When Michael inquires him, he says he needs to be alone for a bit; the angel seems to understand. He apologises—of all things—and excuses himself.

Adam slumps over on himself, still sitting on the desk, with his elbows resting heavy on his knees.

> ♠

That night, when the camp gathers for a semi-formal dinner, Adam watches them closely.

Castiel pokes at the food; but, most of it, he passes on to the children with a sympathetic smile. Dean grumbles something at him (Adam imagines he’s telling Cas to eat) and Cas seems to brush him off, despite a slight falter to his expression.

Michael doesn’t eat. He’ll join the table for a few minutes; but, when the time comes, he’ll excuse himself to his post, just at the edge of camp, and stare into the city. No one ever seems to notice.

Tonight, Adam follows him and settles by his leg with a cup of water and a small bowl he tries to prod towards Michael, despite how many times the angel assures him “we do not require substance as you do” and tries to tell him to eat.

> [iii]  _bitter_  (Michael(/Adam))

It’s days like this, that Michael hates the most (especially the taste that the word leaves in his mouth).

The days where he  _feels_. He feels the antagonistic heat of the late summer sun with the humid, early fall weather. He feels the scream of muscles that he’d crafted years earlier, aching in ways he’d never thought of. Worst of all, he just…  _feels_.

Disgust, with what his Father’s world has become.

Anger, that Father still did not return when Lucifer destroyed the world.

Despair, when he recognises a human—a vessel for a sibling, a future prophet, _hundreds_ of names come rushing to his mind, reminiscent of years long, long since past.

His least favourite is the burning, terrible hate, somewhere deep in his chest. When he sees Dean. When he sees him with Castiel. When he watches Castiel preach words twisted from Scripts (their own Scripts and of other religions) into a more perverse manner, to cope with his own mortality. When his brother—once gentle and strong and devoted entirely to the cause—gives in to such simple, carnal human desires.

More so, he hates when he gives in himself. To the strange, quiet medic that they found a few months before Michael.

Someone that he shouldn’t know anything about; but, he knows all of his vessels.

He never tells Dean that Adam is much more than a simple, extra hand in the medical tent.

He never tells Castiel there are days where he understands--where he feels less and less like the celestial being he tries to portray himself as. 

> [iv]  _late_  (Dean & Michael)

Once every week or so, Michael and Dean will clash.

Castiel’s long since given up on separating them; he will intervene when things get  _too_ heated, but he mostly leaves them to their shouting matches. Everyone else just makes sure they don’t have fire arms.

Michael doesn’t doubt that Dean’s been drinking again, when the hunter raises his voice.

“What part of  _yes_ did you fucking miss?!”

No one else knows. Castiel looks panicked and Michael feels an uncomfortable twist in is chest and gut; one that he’s gotten far too used to.

He used to glare; to end it there by punching Dean and walking away.

Today… today, the camp has already retreated to the safety of their cabins—except for Castiel and Adam; both are tense, waiting just a few feet away—and Michael slowly raises his hand. He sees Dean tense in anticipation; but, he doesn’t throw the punch he wants to. His fist opens, slowly—he can feel the creak of bones and stretch of muscles, the strange sensations he’d never known before—and digs an army knife from one of his pockets. He drags one of the blades across his palm—carefully, precisely—and raises his hand when the blood pools to the surface and a small trickle forms at the edge.

He knows that the way Dean pales signifies he  _knows_ what he’s walked into. He knows there is no Grace left. Not in Michael. Not in Castiel.  _No where_ in the camp. (Sometimes, when he tries, Michael can still sense the natural Grace of the Earth; he can still sense the holy grounds and old shrines where they could recharge if they had time… but, even those are fading.)

Michael’s voice is hollow when he finally speaks up, “I did not miss your pathetic syllable, Winchester.  _You_  failed your mission. I could not stop Lucifer without your  _consent_. Saying yes now—when Heaven has closed, when  _Hell_ has closed—does nothing. “

There’s a tense, heavy silence. Michael gives a tired, dry smirk when he hears Adam and Castiel finally approaching—cautiously—and shakes his head, “Were I even a fraction of the being I once was… I may find your attempt admirable. Welcome, even.” He feels Castiel’s hand on his shoulder—a sign for him to walk away—and feels Adam trying to tug his hand to clean the cut, “But, I am not.  _We_ ,” he glances at his shoulder, briefly. Castiel refuses to meet his eye; he continues, “ _we_ are no longer what we were. We can help protect what little is left. And we will. But… Lucifer  _has won_.”

Castiel tense next to him; Dean, across from him. Adam is the only one that doesn’t go rigid, though he grips Michael’s wrist just a little tighter and ducks his head.

Michael finally lets himself be lead off.

Sometimes, he thinks Dean provokes the fights just to hear him admit defeat—admit Heaven’s fall—before the Winchester finally remembers  _just who_  ended the world.

> [v]  _mortality_  (Michael/Adam)

It’s months—almost a year—since the initial incident. Since Heaven closed with a handful of Angels on Earth (Michael and Raphael, both, had been among the handful). Since Hell barred its Gates to keep Lucifer from pursing the demons that had “tainted”  _his_ world.

Michael has no real sense of time; just of the seasons passing and a generalised knowledge when Castiel or Adam or one of the other refugees makes a comment.

It’s subtle, at first.

Even with the scope, he has difficulty focusing his sniper. Even with eternity’s worth of soldier training, he’s slowly beginning to falter when aiming and firing a gun.

It isn’t until a late evening—when Adam’s checking over closing wounds—that he finally notices. It isn’t until Adam brushes his hands against Michael’s face—gentle, despite the calloused palms and fingers—and makes a single comment.

“You need to sleep more.”

Michael startles. He’s gotten used to the restriction that humans require sleep; Adam continues before he can assure the medic that he  _has_ been sleeping.

“Ignore Dean. Triple shifts aren’t going to do you any good. You’re straining whatever’s left of your vision and I don’t know any optometry clinics in this area… maybe the main hospital; but, that’s  _buried_ in the Hot Zone.” Adam’s quiet a moment and tilts his head, vaguely, to one side, “You have bags under your eyes. You’re getting wrinkles from stressing. I know you’re a soldier… but, you’re not doing yourself—or any of us—any good, burning yourself out this fast.”

Michael tries not to fixate; tries not to let the words leave the unsettling doubt and fear in is mind. He needs to be busy, constantly. Needs to do whatever he can to stop his brother.  Needs to be  _distracted_ from the fact this is just as easily his fault as Dean’s when he remembers he could have—should have—struck his brother down in his temporary vessel.

“I need—” 

“You’re not doing  _me_ any good, doing this to yourself.”

Michael’s mouth snaps shut, any attempt at explanation lost. Adam’s looking down, “Already lost everyone else. Lost my mom. My friends. My home. I  _shouldn’t_ have gotten close to any of you—to  _you_ , especially. Stupid fucking mistake, but…  _I did_. So… just…  _stop_ being reckless. It’s dangerous enough when you  _have_ gotten decent rest.”

Michael pulls him into a tight hold—cradles him, shushes him—before the hyperventilating can start; before the human can dwell too hard on things that have come to pass. Michael knows. He wishes he didn’t; but, he knows. He understands—to some degree.

Michael makes a promise to sleep in Adam’s cabin, as close as he can, just so the medic will stop worrying.

He can’t remember sleeping sounder.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Welcome to the New Age](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4888729) by [queenmab24601](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmab24601/pseuds/queenmab24601)




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